The Limitations of a Legacy
by SaneAndStable
Summary: Post Canon AU. Rose Weasley has, with great difficulty, managed to carve a path of out of her mother's shadow. She has a great job, intellectual stimulation, and a few life-changing secrets to boot. But when the Department of Mysteries enlists her help to track down a murderer, things begin to unravel. F/F. Rose/OC. Dominique/OC. Victoire/OC.


**AN: ****Prologues are a nasty business but necessary when you go AU and need to set up a few things. Reviews are welcome - even if they are just questions about what the hell is going on!**

* * *

Blackwood struggled to reign in his temper.

Letting his nearing rage engulf him—and the conversation—would terrify the witness, derail all the progress made so far and tinge any further conversation with the echo of his towering fury. He could not afford that when had so little to go on. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath; deep into his lungs and into let it reach the tips of his fingers. Behind him, his Thomas Archibald—his senior most Auror—waited patiently, quill poised above a long roll of parchment.

In front of Blackwood sat Andre Locke, bewilderment, despair and a touch of defiance all rolled into one. Sheer stupidity, Blackwood though as well, the idiot was proving to less and less useful.

Still, in this inquiry, they'd use anything—half-witted teenager or barely sentient wood if need be.

'Mr. Locke,' Blackwood said, all controlled calm, 'you were telling us how often your employer travels abroad.'

Locke blinked, slow and lethargic and Blackwood sat on the urge to strangle him.

"It's not _that _often,' Locke said—with a touch of odd defensiveness—'lots of people travel more than her.'

'You mistake my question for judgment,' Blackwood said, 'I merely want to know the frequency.'

'The frequency?'

'How many _times,_' Blackwood ground out, 'in a week or a month or a year? If you had to guess—a number.'

Locke nodded and concentrated on the far wall of the room, mutely counting. Blackwood wondered how far he could count. His office—a uniform, uninteresting grey that looked very different from its previous occupant's tastes—did not have the specific instruction to help.

Locke gathered himself, 'maybe once or twice a month.'

'Every month?'

Locke squinted. More thinking. Blackwood heard Archibald's quill scratch. He himself took no notes. He knew all of the information from his interview already. He was merely re-confirming for thoroughness sake. Archibald's notes were for the inquiry file to maintain a record.

'Mostly every month,' Locke said, 'maybe August last she didn't travel anywhere—but then she was home—which _is _abroad, so to say?' He looked inquiringly at Blackwood.

Blackwood nodded impatiently, 'and this month?'

'She came back from Egypt on the first.'

'Is she planning to go anywhere else?'

Locke stiffened, 'not as far as I know, sir.'

Employer loyalty had kicked in at last. Contrary to what most people assumed, this made Blackwood happier. Hostile interviewees got angry and in anger they made mistakes which Blackwood then used against them with the full might of his Ministerial post. Stupid angry was even better.

'Do you know what these trips are for?'

'No sir.'

'Do you know whom she meets there?'

'No sir.'

'Do you know _anything_ about your employer Mr. Locke?'

A flicker of outrage. 'I know my job sir.' Locke said coldly.

Blackwood permitted himself a cold smile of his own, 'I didn't as about _your _job, Mr. Locke, I asked about Miss Khan's. What exactly does she do?'

Locke swallowed, paused and reached for the glass of water they'd left for him. Blackwood waited for him to take a large gulp and then changed tack slightly,

'You get paid a handsome salary Mr. Locke, don't you?'

Locke gulped water with haste. 'I get paid what I get paid.'

'And you're satisfied with it?'

'Yes, sir.'

More water gulping.

'You get paid—' Blackwood made a big show of referring to the rolls of parchment at his elbow even though he'd memorized all this information, '—nearly 200 galleons a month for what seems to be very little work.'

Locke spluttered, choked and dissolved into coughs. Blackwood waited, the very picture of calm and patience. His rage had long cooled now that he knew his angle.

'I'm her _secretary_,' Locke said once he'd mastered breathing again.

'Yes, so you say,' Blackwood smiled again, 'a secretary with precious little knowledge about his mistresses' affairs.'

Locke thumbed his glass down. 'Miss Khan is a private woman.'

'And you respect her privacy?'

'Of course!'

'Does she _pay _you to respect her privacy?'

Locke spluttered again, but Blackwood realised the allusion was too clever for him. He'd have to be far blunter about it, which was a pity since this would go into a file and on to a record and his boss, Thomas Seltzer, Head of the Auror office would read it and make unfair judgments about him, which in turn would make it on another file somewhere in the personnel department. A pity.

Blackwood leaned forward and tried to be charming, 'you like your job, Mr. Locke?'

Locke regarded him suspiciously, determined to see where the trap was despite his brain being too small tell him how to drink water like an adult.

'Do you like your job?' Blackwood repeated.

'Yes, sir.'

An unwilling reply.

'And do you like the pay?'

'It pays.'

More unwillingness, the words nearly dragged out.

Blackwood leaned forward as much as his chair would permit, his six-foot frame and black eyes effectively looming over the man in front. Locke shrank back, almost caving into himself.

'You would be very sorry to see this job go, wouldn't you?'

Silence this time. Locke's little intelligence working overtime to piece together meaning.

'It would be a pity, wouldn't it,' Blackwood said, still looming, 'if your employer were to be arrested and couldn't pay you?'

More silence. Understanding dawning.

'More pity,' Blackwood continued, quite enjoying himself, 'if you were implicated—but not arrested—and then you'd never find employment again.'

Locke gulped soundlessly. He was not a main who inspired confidence even physically, and his usual neatly parted hair was standing up in small tufts. His quiet, efficient manner had crumbled a while ago, but now even personal dignity was beginning to flee.

'Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Locke?' Blackwood said quietly.

Locke nodded.

'Good,' Blackwood allowed himself a third cold smile and sat back in his chair. He didn't want the man to have a nervous breakdown in the office. That would require far more parchment-work than anyone on his department—last of all Blackwood himself—could stomach. 'Then perhaps you could answer some more questions for us.'

It was not a question but Locke's frightened eyes nodded for him anyway.

Blackwood reshuffled the parchment in his hand.

'Would you say Miss Khan and Rose Weasley are good friends?'

Surprise covered Locke's face again. Followed by puzzlement. But no defiance this time.

'Y-y-yes…?'

'I'm asking the questions here Mr. Locke.'

The frightened man nodded—quick and jerky. 'Y-yes—they are friends.'

'Good friends?'

'Y-yes.'

'_Best _friends?'

Faster nod. 'Yes.'

'And how do you know?'

'How do I…?' Locke repeated, a touch of despair finding its way back.

'How do you know?' Blackwood repeated impatiently.

'I—I've seen them… I mean at school,' Locke was struggling to find words to his meager thoughts, 'they were friends in school.' He finished somewhat helplessly.

'Does she visit the office?'

'Yes, sometimes.'

'How often?'

Locke shrugged vacantly, 'once—twice a month. I can't be sure.'

'Do any other school friends visit Miss Khan's office?'

Locke licked his lips. 'No—not really—wait—' he paused for air, 'Mr. Malfoy visited twice—back in the beginning. _Scorpius _Malfoy,' he added before Blackwood could ask.

New information but Blackwood didn't show it. Archibald's quill scratched in the silence that followed.

'Mr. Malfoy has not visited recently?'

'No sir.'

'And Miss Weasley has?'

'Yes sir.'

'When did she last visit?'

'About ten days ago.'

'After Miss Khan had come back from her trip?'

'That's right.'

Blackwood brought his fingers together to form a steeple and breathed out once slowly. This was important now.

'What happens when Miss Weasley visits when Miss Khan is abroad?'

Locke squirmed despite what Blackwood suspected were his attempts not to.

'What do you tell Miss Weasley when Miss Khan was abroad?'

'That she is out.'

'Just—out?' Blackwood leaned forward slightly, enough to bring back an echo of the looming.

Locke shrank away nevertheless. 'Miss Khan said—she said to make it seem—'

'Yes?'

'That she was just busy with her other—Muggle—work.'

Blackwood digested the answer and watched Locke carefully. The man was not yet terrified of what the Ministry could do to him, but wasn't lying either. Archibald's quill scratched out a whole minute of silence. Then Blackwood steepled his fingers again.

'Does it seem unusual to you that Ms. Khan is so secretive about her whereabouts?'

Locke shrugged, 'I don't know. I don't think.'

Which about summed up Locke's usefulness to Blackwood but nevertheless he persevered.

'Do you ever organise her parchment-work?'

Locke shook his head decisively, 'no, sir.'

'Make her tea, bring it to her office?'

'No sir,'

'Rundown a list of her appointments? Brief her in the morning?'

'No sir,'

'In short,' Blackwood said, over his steepled fingers, 'do you do any work that make you worth what you are paid—or even what your position _does_?'

Locke shook his head and then added, a mix of desperation and defiance, 'I write letters.'

'To whom?'

'The International Confederation of Wizards.'

Blackwood raised an eyebrow. Archibald's steadily scratching quill came to a stop.

'Forgive me,' Blackwood said, after he collected himself, and his brain raced ahead with numerous possibilities, each more rich and explorable than the last, '_you _write letters to the Confederation?'

Locke nodded—stopped—and then nodded again. He looked like he'd been hit by a thoroughly underwhelming nodding spell.

'I write them, but I mean she _dictates _them—'

'Ah,' Blackwood said, deflated.

'Right,' Archibald muttered.

'—But I get them in the _proper_ language,' Locke said, bright spots of colour appearing on his cheeks, 'I studied Latin, you know!'

Blackwood briefly considered strangling the man and blaming it on Archibald. Then with a sigh, he brought himself to the task at hand. Time to do what they had set out to do when they'd effectively kidnapped Locke from his evening walk home. Everything else was just window dressing for the file.

'Mr. Locke,' he said, 'do you have many friends?'

Locke—still flushed from announcement of his academic prowess—did a customary half shrug. 'Yes—some I mean.'

'Some.'

'A few I mean.'

Blackwood made a great show of nodding gravely. 'Would you say you have _enough_ friends?'

Locke took his time answering, once again looking for the trap and once again missing it entirely.

'I have what I have I guess,' he fiddled with the armrest, 'they're good friends.'

'Good friends,' Blackwood repeated, keeping his tone grave, 'you'd help them out if they asked?'

'Yes, of course.'

'No matter what they asked?'

'Yes—I mean if they need—' Locke stopped in sudden realisation.

'Would you say, Mr. Locke,' Blackwood said in the crushing silence that followed, 'that _we _are friends?'

* * *

Jamie Escar wandered around the City of London thinking of the murdered man. She had—foolishly—thought she could perhaps re-trace the man's last few steps through the square mile that made up the strangest jurisdiction that she had come across in her travels so far but so far had nothing.

It wasn't, in the strictest sense true.

She did have _some _things. Many things really. His hotel room. His last known whereabouts. How he'd died and what had killed him. She even knew _why _he died—which was driving the Muggle policemen _crazy_—but she didn't have what _mattered_. Not to the Ministry of Magic anyway. Certainly not to the Department of Mysteries—which she was Deputy Head of— and it's many problems.

So she'd taken to the streets and was standing in the steady _drip-drip _of the London rain and watching a pub called _Three Penny, _which in the heart of the city did not really reflect the prices inside. Jamie knew: she'd gone inside to do a cursory check and nearly died looking at the menu.

All of this would have been fine, if her boss hadn't thought to stick her with a shadow. _Departmental procedure _was the way of the world no matter which side of the road one drove on. So now her shadow—which was her boss' way of covering her own arse—stood by and silently judged every decision Jamie made in a quiet, infuriating way that didn't help matters.

Jamie leaned by the side of the bus stop, directly in the path of the cold wind and lit a Muggle cigarette. The hapless Department of Magical Law Enforcement employee, not wanting to stand downwind of the smoke was forced to stand across shielding Jamie from the wind. They stood in stubborn silence until finally the rain got too much for one of them.

'Do you think he's going to show up here?' AJ said, nodding to the bright glow of _Three Penny_ across the road.

'How do you know he's a he?' Jamie replied.

AJ blinked. They were both dressed in coats, getting steadily wetter since using a water-repelling spell would have left them uncommonly dry and drawn attention. It didn't bother Jamie in the slightest since she preferred thinking like a Muggle when forced to chase one down, and unfortunately it didn't seem to bother AJ either: her training was exemplary.

'What's the significance of _Three Penny?' _AJ tried again.

'Haven't the foggiest,' Jamie replied with cheerful enthusiasm she did not feel.

AJ sighed and shifted weight from one foot to the other. Jamie watched her slowly come to a decision.

'Professor—' she began.

'I haven't taught you in eight years AJ,' Jamie said quickly, intent on drowning out any familiarity.

AJ stopped, sighed, and started again.

'Jamie—why am I here?'

Jamie drew on her cigarette and thought how easily one could start an existential crisis. _Why are any of us here, _she could reply and return the conversation to its start. But she knew AJ and her persistence would lead right back here and after the three hours they'd spent on foot and in the rain criss-crossing the square mile, AJ had earned the right to some answers at least. Or at least some questions which would lead to some answers.

'Who's the Minister right now AJ?'

AJ made a face, 'Macmillan.'

'You've worked with him before I take it.'

AJ stepped out of the spray from a passing bus and bunched her coat tightly around.

'I was his part of his Enforcement attaché when he was sent to MACUSA.'

'Protection detail?'

'No—the Aurors took that. They needed grunts so Enforcement coughed up. Me, Richard and Laver.'

'Stellar,' Jamie said and watched the pub.

The seconds ticked by slowly. Jamie waited for the connection to be made. AJ hadn't been the best in class but she got there in the end. Three tries would be expected.

'So I'm here because the Minister wants me?'

'Not quite,' Jamie said. _Three Penny _drew a young, diverse, cosmopolitan crowd of exceedingly well-dressed men and spectacularly beautiful women. They had everything and nothing in common. Their childhoods jarringly unfamiliar, their jobs entirely the same, their wealth—or at least what their jobs gave them—unimaginable. At least to some wizards and witches.

'Macmillan and I didn't get along that well,' AJ said more to herself than Jamie, 'why would he suddenly want to do me a favour?'

Jamie tipped ash on to the wet pavement, 'I didn't know this assignment is a favour.'

'It's not a punishment either.'

Jamie waited. Two chances gone, one to go. Maybe she'd help AJ out a little.

'Who was head of the protection unit in New York?'

AJ was slow to answer, 'Seltzer. He's Head of the Auror office now.'

'And whose case is this—officially?'

'Yours—I mean Department of Mysteries.'

'Bingo.'

AJ frowned. 'So what—it's all politics?'

'Not quite.' Jamie said again, waiting patiently. She'd cut the kid some slack, she'd specialised in magical finance. AJ shifted her weight again and cast a look at the pub Jamie had been watching so intently.

'What are you looking for?'

'Someone that doesn't fit.'

AJ made a sound that could have been a snort or a sigh. It was hard to tell.

'Who doesn't fit—everyone's loaded in there.'

Sadly, Jamie agreed, which made her task far harder than she wanted it to be. She wasn't opposed to hard work in _theory, _but she much preferred her work some to her neatly on a platter instead of running around the countryside like an errant child.

'More's the pity,' Jamie said, crushing and tossing her cigarette butt into the bin in one smooth move. She'd already hit her limit for the day and it was looking like a long night. Especially if AJ was going to stick around. How to get rid of her?

'So did you work it out?' She asked.

'Politics,' AJ replied—a touch sourly.

'But whose politics?'

AJ thought about it. Long and hard. Just like she used to in the classroom. Classroom. Jamie blinked and a sudden idea bloomed.

'Not my politics,' AJ said, and after a moment's hesitation, 'and not yours either.'

'No.'

'And not Macmillan,' AJ continued, gathering confidence, 'I doubt he even remembers me. Who's left—Seltzer?'

Jamie gave her best, most expansive shrug, 'you worked with him.'

'It's not him,' AJ said decisively. A moment—and then realisation. 'Ah. I see.'

'Cheers,' Jamie said and smiled. 'Welcome to inter-departmental investigations. It's a shit-show.'

AJ swore and pulled her sodden collar up against the neck. Jamie took her last glace at the pub and made a decision. They'd stood here long enough in the rain to attract attention from the people she'd hoped she'd find, but nothing had shaken out. No matter, she had other people she could talk to. But first—

'Are you still friends with Rose Weasley?'

An immediate withdrawal on AJ's face telling Jamie she'd guessed correctly.

'_Were_ friends. In school. Now we're just…'

'Acquaintances,' Jamie supplied helpfully.

'Yeah,' AJ said, less hostile.

'Why don't you go meet her?'

AJ looked like she'd rather get her tonsils removed. 'Why?'

'Have a chat, catch up.'

'About what?'

Jamie grinned, 'About what she does.'

'I know what she does,' AJ said in annoyance as though she rather wished she didn't.

'Yeah—what's that?'

'She makes wands.'

Jamie waited. This time it was far quicker.

'_Oh. _Oh—okay then.'

Jamie took a quick glance around to make sure no Muggle was actively looking at her and prepared herself.

'Go tomorrow,' she said, 'there's no rush.'

'Fine,' AJ said, still sullen, 'wait what about—hey _one sec!_'

But Jamie had turned on the spot and evaporated with a faint _pop._

* * *

Despite a slight detour Jamie made it back to work before six, which was good, because along the way she'd decided that it was time to report to her boss. She stopped by her office first, which was a tiny storeroom of a space designed so that no one would attempt a meeting in there which suited Jamie perfectly since she detested meetings.

On her desk lay five tightly rolled memos each on coloured paper signifying which department it had emerged from: three light blues, one black and one bright red. Jamie read them in increasing order of importance, leaving the bright red—Minister of Magic's office—for last.

The two light-blue ones were from the Department of Maintenance, the first one to detail which dates the right side floo fireplaces would be cleaned and if Ministry workers would please take note. The next one a correction to the dates on the first. The third one was decidedly _not _from the Department of Maintenance but was written on its paper, for which Jamie was grateful. She memorised the contents of it—meager as they were—and then set fire to it with the tip of her wand. The other two memos folded themselves obligingly into paper planes and made a beeline for the bin.

The black memo from her own boss had the words: _meeting, now_ printed precisely on it. Jamie set fire to this in irritation. She'd already decided to meet but now it would seem as if she were doing so on instruction and not of her own volition which took out the image of initiative she'd been going for.

The last memo—blood red from the Minister of Magic's office—was merely an invitation to the Ministerial Press Ball on Friday, which she as deputy of a department, was required to attend. Jamie left it on her desk where it promptly began folding itself into a neat letter, which would double as a pass come Friday.

Jamie took one last look at her desk, turned on her heel and left, sealing the office behind her. If any more memos came they'd find their way through an invisible flap at eye-level.

Ingrid Bern had been made Head of the Department of Mysteries in Hermione Granger's tenure, and so far had made the transition to Macmillan's term without rocking the boat. She was a woman of great intellect, mental fortitude, and sublime charisma. When she spoke—quiet and with correct enunciation—everyone listened. She was one of the few people in the Ministry who had no desire to be written into the history books, and thus one of even fewer people who had no time for bullshit or covering-your-arse tactics.

Jamie admired her enormously.

She was also terrified of her.

Bern looked up at Jamie as though she was expecting her.

'I've been expecting you,' said Bern.

'_I've _been expecting _you,_' Jamie replied, I planned to come here.'

'Indubitably.'

Jamie settled herself across the desk and took in the office. Unlike her closet, _this _was an office made to impress. It had deep, rich, wood everywhere that gleamed. Heavy fabric across the windows and tasteful upholstery everywhere. One entire wall—behind Bern—dedicated to books. Granger had been very impressed and in one interview with the _Prophet _named the Department of Mysteries her favourite to visit. Not that she ever went into the _actual _department of course—merely this office.

Bern cleared her throat, 'where is Jones?'

'Chasing down a lead.'

Bern said nothing, her heavily lined face deepening into a frown. The shock of absolute white hair added to what could have been mistaken as age catching up, had it not been for the razor sharp blue eyes that missed nothing and conveyed everything. Blue eyes that were currently conveying deep annoyance.

'It's a worthwhile lead,' Jamie protested.

Bern sighed and made a _get-on-with-it _gesture with one slight movement of her index finger.

'I've got everything I can from the Muggle police,' Jamie said.

'And?'

'And I can't find the buyer.' She waited a beat and then added to the disappointment:

'Or the wand.'

Bern said nothing so Jamie went on.

'From what I can tell he's rich. Which is a problem.'

'Rich people usually are,' Bern said. 'Why are you thinking he?'

'Muggle police report.' Jamie answered promptly, 'all the eyewitnesses said he was alone—anyone would remember a woman. Idle gossip.'

'Conjecture.'

'_Educated_ conjecture,' Jamie said, 'but even then I'll concede—it's possible I'm wrong.'

'And probable.'

Jamie took a deep breath. 'It doesn't matter because I'm not following up on that anymore.'

Bern let the echo of Jamie's pronouncement die away before tilting her head back ever-so-slightly. 'Oh? And why is that?'

Jamie admired how her boss radiated stillness even when shocking statements were made to her with complete confidence. Such as now:

'Its not worth the effort,' Jamie explained, 'not when we have a better lead.'

Bern rubbed her index finger against her thumb in a small, delicate motion. 'McArthur is still working on it.'

'And he'll continue till the end of time,' Jamie said and fixed her boss with her most no-nonsense look, 'we need a new set of eyes.'

A long silence followed these words, broken only by quiet chirpings outside the window—Department Head's only got that. Bern looked outside once—probably to identify which bird—and then sighed heavily. She reached into her immaculate desk, brought out a fresh roll of parchment and procured for parchment and ink.

'Do you know why I hired you Jamie?' she said, unscrewing the inkpot with very careful movements.

'Because you admired my work?'

'No, it's because you asked me to,' Bern said—and added with a ghost of a smile, 'begged me to.'

'That's _not _the way I remember it.'

'Now tell me,' Bern continued, holding up a freshly-dipped quill in one hand, 'why I should not write your termination notice right at this moment?'

A moment of silence.

Jamie sighed, 'there's no need for theatrics.'

'I'm wondering if there is a _need for_ _you._'

'McArthur won't find _anything!' _Jamie said, exploding out of her chair in impatience, 'and if he won't find anything, neither will I and neither will you and then Macmillan will write _both _of our termination notices! We _need _new eyes—we _need _Rose Weasley.'

Bern's blue eyes studied her. 'Why Rose Weasley?'

'She's the best we've got.'

'You're willing to stake your career on it?'

'I'm willing,' Jamie said, with every effort to control her temper, 'to bet the fate of the magical world on it.'

Bern put down her quill and listened to the birds.

'I thought there was no need for theatrics.'

Jamie sighed and flung herself back into the chair, suddenly exhausted by the many sleepless nights and paranoia-filled days she'd had.

'We're missing something,' she said slowly, 'and it's not something _obvious—_we need an expert. And I know Rose Weasley. I taught her for Merlin's sake.'

Bern re-centered the parchment on the surface. She picked up her quill and paused.

'You understand her position in Blackwood's case?'

Jamie snorted, 'Blackwood doesn't _have _a case.'

'Even so.'

'Blackwood has a nose to fish for suspects and nothing else.'

'Even so.'

'Blackwood has a wish and a prayer and a goodluck charm in Archibald.'

'And Zara Khan's secretary.'

Jamie blinked. 'Oh.'

'Yes.' Bern studied her for long moments and then released a long sigh.

'We may hope,' she said as she began to write in her precise hand, 'that the Minister takes kindly to this request.'

'He better, if he wants another term.'

Bern paused for a moment and her hand wavered. She looked out to her birds and then back again, finally looking as troubled as Jamie had been feeling all month.

'You can ask Rose Weasley on Friday.'

Jamie nodded but said nothing; she'd produce a report of her evening jaunts at another time.


End file.
